


Ashes

by daisyink



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Aftermath, Angst, Break Up, M/M, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-28 17:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisyink/pseuds/daisyink





	Ashes

I sit by the light of the fireplace, the amber flames rising steadily higher and coming close to licking the fiber of my chair. How desolate—how empty—it seems in this lone leather chair, without his presence nearby. I feel desperate, disgusted with myself; even the warmth of the flames can't comfort me, and instead seem to mock me: the tongues of fire rise and fall, crackling merrily, while I myself am about to crash and, ironically, burn.

Crackle. Hiss.

The log is getting that white, ashy look that indicates it is about to crumble—and, yes, look at that, it does! One second it is merely a solid log, enveloped in a glove of flames and perfectly intact; and then—and then, in the merest of moments, it's gone. Now that log is nothing but a pile of ashes, with no evidence of its former existence.

How perfectly appropriate it is.

As I look back, I can see now that it only took a moment. Oh, it may have built up through those countless nights, spirited arguments, and pointless insults. But when it gets down to it, it really was only determined by a single, heart-stopping moment.

I could've said yes; I could've decided to be brave, like I never could be before, but instead—instead, I took a coward's way out.

That night, instead of 'yes,' I said no. Instead of being strong, I was weak.

I still am.

I, for example, can now do nothing but stare into the flames—ever so mocking—and wonder how I could've been such an idiot. I should go up to him, look straight into his emerald-green eyes, and say that I'm sorry. That I'm so sorry, that I'm a fool, a coward, and that…

That I love him.

But, alas, you can't teach an old dog new tricks. I'd tried countless times to utter those three words; to mirrors, dogs, and inanimate objects. I can never quite get all of them out.

He'd said—oh, how well I remember it—he'd said, in a quiet tone that was somehow worse than his usual shouting, "Come and have a go if you think you're hard enough."

After an argument, he was furious, resentful, and weary; just like all the others. His eyes, however, revealed that there was something else there. A different element was present that time, and I sensed that the heat of his anger was rooted closer to his heart than in his anger—and in a moment, I knew. Hidden under his words' tough exterior was a plea; a plea for me to finally admit what I never could—that I loved him, cared for him, was crazy about him—and to try and make it work between us. That same night I had stared at the fire in his eyes, sparkling angrily, and burning with a need that I was terrified I wouldn't be able to fulfill.

Now, even as I stare deep into the burning fire, its flames crackling scornfully, I realize fully that I never  _can_  say it. Just like that night, when I couldn't even say those three simple words, I cannot come up to him and say, simply, that I'm sorry.

And so, I whisper it to myself instead, staring into the flames that have become so familiar; and another log crumbles to ashes.

 

 _xx_


End file.
